


All My Children

by TribalGraces



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Children, Family, Family Drama, Gen, Hope, Interspecies, Loss, Vulcan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 03:39:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TribalGraces/pseuds/TribalGraces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Awake after nearly four centuries in cryogenic storage, Clare Raymond wants to find whoever is left of her own family. But this is the 24th century. How will she find them all? And what if they're not quite what she expects? Takes place after "The Neutral Zone" (season 1) and overlaps "Family" (season 4). Human, Andorian, & Vulcan OCs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> About 95% canon friendly. If the other 5% bothers you, feel free to think of the story as a closely parallel AU.

**2365**

There were days when Clare Raymond thought she might like to kill her husband Donald, if only he were still alive. 

The problem was that, if he were alive, she'd have no reason to kill him. If Donald were still alive, she wouldn't be stranded in the 24th century without a living soul from her past to keep her company. Such was the paradox of Clare Raymond's new life.

Her new life began when she woke up bewildered and disoriented in some sort of hospital suite. It was a shock to learn that the suite was part of a ship in outer space, and a still bigger shock to find out that the year was 2364.

Clare's last conscious memory was from Monday, October 10, 1994.

Donald was gone. Her two young sons, Tommy and Eddie, were gone. An entire planet as she knew it had vanished centuries ago, or overnight, from her perspective. She had survived all of them, ironically, because she had died first, after which Donald had had her body cryogenically preserved and launched into space.

“What's so strange,” she said to Deanna Troi, “is that first they outlived me, and now I've outlived them. Somehow, it just doesn't seem fair that to any of us, does it?”

“No, it doesn't,” Deanna replied with a shake of her head and a gentle smile. Even in Clare's sadness, she was drawn to Deanna's smiles; they seemed to express comfort, sympathy, and hope, all at once. And empathy—Like she knows just how I feel, Clare thought. 

Not everyone in the 24th century was so sympathetic. Clare journeyed back to earth aboard a ship called the Charleston, along with Ralph Offenhouse and Sonny Clemonds, her fellow refugees from the cryogenic ship. When alone with each other, the three of them found morbid amusement in keeping score of how many patronizing remarks had been aimed at each of them that day. The high scorer for the trip would buy the first round of drinks once they set foot on earth. “We're presently about fifty-nine light years away from the Sol system,” the Charleston's helmsan told her one day. “Sol is what we call the Earth's sun, in case you weren't aware. Of course, you may not realize that a light year is a measure of distance, not of time...” 

As Clare confided to Ralph and Sonny, “Some of these Starfleet people act as if that Zefram Whatsisname character brought Earth out of the Dark Ages, single-handedly and overnight.”

“I can go you one better,” Sonny said. “People in this century treat me like I can't read or write, and have probably never seen indoor plumbing.”

Their trip back to earth was long and roundabout, giving Clare time to accustom herself to the new technology. Getting accustomed to the idea that her own little family was gone forever, well, that was a different matter. She wondered sometimes if you ever got over the loss of your children. Nope, she concluded every time, you never do, even if you knew they had grown up and outlived you. The only bright spot was that Deanna Troi had stayed in touch with Clare throughout the journey home. It was Deanna who had helped Clare trace the whereabouts of one of her few known living descendants, her great-great-ten-generations-removed-great-grandson, Tom Raymond of Indianapolis. 

As the Charleston neared earth, Sonny began making inquiries about bands that might need a guitarist, while Ralph was already in negotiations for a position at the Berlin branch of the Bank of Bolius. “What about you, Clare?” asked Sonny. “Got any plans, once you get to back to that big blue ball of water we call home?”

“Three things I'm going to do as soon as I get to earth,” Clare said. “First, I'm going to track down every living descendant I can find, starting with Tom Raymond. Next, I'm going to find a job, whatever job I can, and try to make something of this new life I didn't ask for. I don't know what I can do in this century, but when I find it, I'll do it. And finally, I'm going to write and publish my memoirs. If Donald and my boys are gone, at least they won't be forgotten.”

It seemed at first as if Clare might achieve all three goals without too great a struggle. Dr. Thomas Collin Raymond, Associate Professor of Sociology at Butler-Forrest University in Indianapolis, was amazed, then delighted, to meet his ancient ancestress—though not for the reasons Clare was hoping.

“This is extraordinary, meeting a contemporary of Khan Noonien Singh,” he said. “Your era is one of my academic specialties, especially the social and political forces behind the rise of the Augments. To think, you're not just from Khan's era, but even your method of survival was similar to his.”

“Khan? Survived? Khan is here?” This was not happy news. “I thought your generation eliminated war and dictators and all that.”

“Oh, Khan's not here. He was revived from a sleeper ship about a hundred years ago, but he died a few years later. The Starfleet crew who found him didn't even take the time to interview him properly. What a loss to our understanding of your era.” He shook his head. “But now that you're here, Clare, we can change all that. My colleagues are going to be green with envy. Having access to you is going to make me a very popular man at Butler-Forrest.”

If that sounded mercenary, Clare was willing to overlook it. The comfort of finding someone she could call family was worth any shortcomings. To her relief, she even found a job before long. Her homemaking skills—cooking, decorating, needlework, and the like—were not in great commercial demand. But by sheer good luck, a local museum was seeking a docent with a working knowledge of pre-warp-era culture and artifacts. Clare was a natural fit. 

It turned out that Clare was also good for business. As her story became more widely known, she became something of a museum attraction herself. Her favorite activity was giving tours to groups of schoolchildren, whose questions ran the gamut from, “How did people use the bathroom back then?” to “Did you ever meet Abraham Lincoln?” Or even, from the littlest visitors, “Did they have dinosaurs when you were still alive?” 

But at the end of the day, when Clare returned alone to her little apartment, the laughter of the workday faded to quiet loneliness. There, keeping company with her own memories, she began writing the story of her life with Donald, Tommy, and Eddie. She was in no hurry to complete the work. Sometimes the right words just wouldn't come, and anyway, she wasn't sure what she would do with herself if she ever finished it.

What Clare missed was someone of her own to care about. She wasn't romantically lonely, since she still felt married to Donald sometimes; what she longed for was a connection to her vanished children. That's why, in spite of a few misgivings, Clare accepted when Professor Tom (as she called him in her own mind, to distinguish him from her son Tommy) invited her to move to a new house with him. Not only that, but Clare loved to cook, so she looked forward to having someone else to cook for occasionally. “Anyway,”said Tom, “having a housemate will qualify me for a bigger place to live, with more amenities. And it will make it more convenient to do my research. I can help you with that memoir of yours, too.” 

“I don't need help,” Clare said, “but it would be wonderful to have someone to share it with sometimes. After all, it's your story too, in a way. It's part of where you came from.”

The tension started almost as soon as she moved in. Tom seemed bemused that Clare still clung to some of her twentieth-century habits. 

The two of them were sitting up late one discussing the latest chapter of Clare's memoir. Tom was nursing a glass of wine, as Clare sat knitting a sock, with a cup of mint tea nearby. Tom looked up from the PADD and scowled. “You know, you don't have to do that any more.”

“Do what?” Clare asked.

“Knit things. If you need clothes, we have replicators for that.”

“But I like to do it. It's creative and it relaxes me.”

“Well, suit yourself,” Tom replied in a skeptical tone of voice. “But you should finish up this autobiography so we can publish it.”

“All in good time, Tom. When I'm ready.” 

“Then let's talk research,” said Tom. “Tell me more about Khan. Why did so many people of your time flock to follow him?”

“He was very handsome,” Clare explained, “very charismatic. I think most of the women who followed him were in love with him, and maybe half the men. He was a mesmerizing speaker. The problem is that people were so caught up by the way he said things, that they weren't paying careful attention to what he said.” 

Tom swirled the wine in his glass and then took a long drink of it. “So you don't think there was any substance to his claim that eugenics was an expression of faith in humanity's ability to improve itself?”

Clare shook her head. “Khan was a bully and a thug. Don't believe all the nonsense about how nonviolent he was. By the late 80's he was already starting to impose mandatory genetic screening and forced sterilization. There were rumors of infanticides at some of the hospitals under his control. He thought the Western world was deluded by our ideas of equality. He even called freedom a superstition.”

“Yet people liked him,” Tom insisted.

“But he didn't like people. When someone claims to love the human race, they don't prove it by trying to wipe out everything that makes us human.”

Clare wished Professor Tom could spend a few years in her own century. That might cure him of his romantic illusions about Khan. However, she was starting to suspect that she had a few illusions of her own, such as the hope that she would ever truly feel like family with a career-obsessed descendant who happened to admire one of the most infamous tyrants of her era.


	2. Chapter 2

**June, 2366**

“Tonight, you're going to meet my future wife and her kids,” Professor Tom announced.

“Well, that was fast,” Clare laughed. “Didn't you just meet her a few weeks ago?”

Tom grinned. “Hey, I just couldn't wait to make you a grandmother,” he said. “No, wait, that's not right, is it? What would they call you, Clare?”

“Step-grandmother, many generations removed. Or stepmother-in-law, ditto the generations. Although it's strange to think of myself as a mother-in-law. But then I suppose I'm already one, many times over.”

“She'll like you,” Tom said, “I'm sure of it. I told her I'm counting on you to help me make full professor.”

"That's out of my hands,” Clare replied, “but one thing I can do is make dinner tonight to welcome them all to the family.”

Tom shrugged. “Sure, why not? One non-replicated meal won't hurt them.” It was the kind of remark Professor Tom made all too often. Clare was never sure whether the barbs were intentional or not. Today she decided not to dwell on it. _After all_ , she thought, _why spoil the good mood? It's not every day you meet your tenth-generation-grandson's future wife._

Tom's guests arrived earlier than expected, so Clare was still in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. As she was removing her apron to come out and greet them, a stylish, dark-haired woman walked into the kitchen and held out her hand. “I'm Giovanna,” she said, glancing around the kitchen with a curious, almost wary, look. “You must be Clare.” 

Clare reached for a towel to wipe off the flour before taking Clare's hand. “Welcome to my kitchen, and sorry for the clutter. I've heard so many nice things about you. I wanted to make you something special for your first visit here.”

Giovanna gave a small, tight smile that didn't match the cool expression in her eyes. “How very... _kind_ of you.” She surveyed the ingredients spread out over the counter and wrinkled her nose at the chunks of raw stew meat. “But isn't the whole process a bit... messy?”

 _Sometimes you just know instinctively that you're not going to be friends_ , Clare thought.

Two young girls crowded into the kitchen behind Giovanna. The first was a youthful version of her mother, brunette and aloof. “This is my daughter, Emilia,” Giovanna said, drawing the girl forward. “She's twelve, and she's planning to major in art history when she goes off to college, aren't you, Emmie?” Giovanna favored Emilia with a smile, a real one, this time. “Oh, and that's Lizzie,” she added, nodding toward the younger. Lizzie looked to be about nine. She had the same deep blue eyes as her mother and sister, though there wasn't much resemblance otherwise. “Well, it looks like you have a lot of work to do, Clare, so we'll stay out of your way.”

 _Don't offer to help, or anything,_ Clare thought, but didn't say. _I've got it all under control._

“So that was her?” Clare heard Emilia ask as they filed out of the kitchen. “Tom's dead grandmother?”

That night after the guests left, Clare cornered Tom. “So what did I do wrong?” she asked. “Why doesn't Giovanna like me?”

“Well, maybe she's just a little bit jealous. You know, you are rather famous in local circles. And you and I spend a lot of time together on research.”

“But that's silly,” Clare exclaimed, irritated. “I'm your grandmother, more or less. I'm not exactly a rival for your affections.”

“Well, she's not used to your ways. Not to be unkind, Clare, but you take some getting used to, with all that sewing and cooking and busywork. Things would go more smoothly if you'd just learn to rely on the replicators.”

Before becoming Tom's housemate, Clare had assumed that replicators were strictly a ship-board convenience. That turned out not to be the case, at least not in Professor Tom's social circle. Clare had once told Deanna, “If it was new and foolish, Donald would pop for it.” In this, Tom resembled his ancestor. He had thought Clare's fondness for cooking was quaint at first. It was a pleasant novelty, like making dinner over a campfire. As time passed, he decided she was amusingly stubborn. Eventually, goaded by Giovanna, he concluded that she was annoyingly stuck in her outdated ways.

In spite of that, Clare was happy whenever Giovanna's children were at the house, especially Lizzie. Emilia, poised to begin her teen-aged years, was often too wrapped up in school and social events to care about “ancient history,” which meant anything to do with Clare. Lizzie, however, became like a second shadow to Clare whenever she came to visit.

“Do you like living in this century?” Lizzie asked her one day.

“Mostly I do,” Clare said. “But I miss my kids.”

Lizzie nodded. “Me, too,” she said with a sigh. “I miss my dad. Sometimes I even miss my mom. She's always busy with Tom or her job or Emilia.”

Lizzie and Clare both agreed that the most interesting item in Professor Tom's home was the curio cabinet that held his collection of offworld trinkets. Among the odd and exotic goblets, figurines, daggers, and game pieces were several small, gracefully shaped vases made of jewel-toned glass. Two or three were edged with gold, and one was incised with a beautiful swirling script. “These are exquisite,” Clare remarked. “Hand blown?”

“Yes, from Vulcan,” Tom replied. “Gifts from a couple of colleagues. Vulcans have been expert glassmakers since prehistoric times. It comes from having a planet full of sand.”

“I wish I could go to Vulcan,” Lizzie chimed in. “Or any place. I never get to go anywhere. When I grow up, I'm joining Starfleet. How come you don't join Starfleet, Clare?”

“I belong here on earth,” Clare said.

“Besides, Clare's afraid of aliens,” Tom added, with a hint of a smirk.

Tom's amusement at her expense was a sore spot with Clare. “I'd like to see how brave you'd be, Tom, if you woke up some day not even knowing aliens existed, and found some huge, hulking Klingon looming over your bed.” Aboard the _Enterprise_ , Clare had promptly fainted on her first sight of Lt. Worf. In her defense, that encounter had happened only minutes after she was revived from 370 years of being asleep, or dead, or in suspended animation, or whatever it was Donald had arranged for her. Even so, the memory of it still made her cheeks go red with embarrassment.

Nor was it reassuring that, shortly after her awakening, the _Enterprise_ had come under threat by yet another group of aliens, a belligerent race known as the Romulans. Ralph Offenhouse had seen these Romulans for himself. “Fierce” and “devilish-looking” were the words he'd used to describe them.

Aliens were best left alone, that much was clear. Besides, who needed aliens, when humans were enough of a challenge?

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**January, 2367**

Clare removed a plate of steaming meatloaf and mashed potatoes from the replicator. The good news: there were replicator codes for old-fashioned comfort foods from her own time period. 

She lifted a forkful of the meatloaf and nibbled at it experimentally. The bad news: replicated food never tasted quite right, at least not to someone raised on the real thing. 

_How is it possibl_ e, Clare wondered, _that transporters can reassemble a human body so perfectly that even your thoughts remain intact, while replicators produce meals that taste like cheap TV dinners? What this century need_ s, she concluded, _is a restaurant that makes real food from scratch, and they could just beam it into your dining room. Maybe that way they'd get it right._

Clare dumped the meatloaf into the recycler. She reached into the refrigeration unit for some vegetables. She'd just have to stir-fry something fresh for lunch. If only Professor Tom didn't regard real cooking as an affront to his ideas of modernity. The man had no idea what he was missing.

As she was chopping some celery, a call came in from her boss at the museum. “I know it's your day off, Clare, but would you mind coming by my office in an hour or so? Something has come up that can't wait.”

When Clare arrived, her boss greeted her with a knowing look. “So, I never realized how attracted you were to Khan. Was that a normal thing for women in your day?”

Clare didn't like the sound of that. “What are you talking about?”

“This article Dr. Raymond just released,” said her boss, handing Clare a tablet displaying the headline, _Power, Potency, and Global Politics: Psychosexual Factors Behind the Rise and Hegemony of the Augments._

Clare took the tablet and began reading. She knew Tom had recently published an analysis of Khan's rise to power, but she hadn't suspected that his interviews with her would be a prominent feature of the work. Nor had she known that snippets and excerpts of her own memoir were included liberally throughout, along with Tom's lengthy dissections of those snippets. “I've already had several calls from people requesting your comments,” said Clare's boss. “My assistant is about to set up a press conference. Would you be ready this afternoon, or would you prefer to wait till tomorrow morning?”

\- - -

Professor Tom, basking in the glow of praise that his colleagues had heaped on his latest publication, was unprepared for the ambush that awaited him in his living room that evening. Clare, arms crossed in front of her and eyes blazing, was ready to pounce as soon as he walked into the living room.

“So explain this to me, Tom. Explain how the stories I trusted you with--my private stories that I wanted to tell by myself some day--ended up in your article?” 

Tom looked at Clare with a wounded expression. “What private stories? You seemed eager enough to get my opinion on them. You were planning to publish them anyway.”

“But not yet! I only shared them with you because you're my own flesh and blood. I never told you to take them and run with them.”

“Those stories needed to be told,” Tom protested, “and now was the time. Besides, Clare, I'm trained for this. I have a ready-made audience because of my academic reputation. You were sitting on a gold mine of history and hoarding it to yourself. Don't you care about knowledge, about study, about advancing our understanding of human nature?”

“I care about you, a member of my own family, betraying my confidence.”

“Calm down, Clare,” Tom said, trying to regain control of the situation. “Look, no harm was done. The department was really happy with the way this turned out. I think we can both regard this as a highly successful collaboration. In fact, one of the best of my career.”

“No, Tom,” Clare replied, struggling to keep her voice steady. “ _Stealing_ is not a form of collaboration. _Plagiarism_ is not collaboration. _Lying_ about me is not collaboration. On the list of things that collaboration is not, you've covered most of them.” 

Tom crossed his arms in front of him and stared down his nose at her. “You don't own the past, Clare. These events are not your personal property.”

“But some of 'these events' never happened at all! Like me saying I found Khan 'a fantasy figure of dominant sensuality.' Where did you ever get that?”

“Don't be so emotional. I wasn't quoting you, as you'd have seen if you were reading carefully. I was trying to convey the essence of what you were saying. Those were the dark ages; things were different. People need to understand what it was like back then. Besides, sociology is an art form, not just a science. It's not just about exact quotes or statistics. It's about why people do things, and the real meaning behind what they say.”

“And my 'real meaning' was that I had the hots for that ogre?” By now Clare had given up trying to control her voice, and the words came out as a shriek. “Sorry, but in all your ransacking of my memoir, you must have missed the part where I really loved Donald. Which is too bad, because that was sort of the whole point.”

“No, the point was that you agreed to help me in my research, and I took you at your word. But the truth is, you've undermined me and my research from the time you got here.”

The unfairness of the accusation stung Clare into momentary silence. By the time she found her voice, Tom had seized the offensive.

“You heard me, Clare, _undermined_. Like with my alien colleagues,” he continued. “You're always staring at them. Or asking them rude questions, when you don't go to the other extreme and clam up around them. Or you're trying to feed them things they're not supposed to eat. You're always trying to control what I eat, with all that cooking and baking. You're in that kitchen making a new mess every time I turn around. You need to learn how to live like a normal person, instead of always trying to turn back the clock to your own barbaric age.”

Clare sat down heavily and leaned her forehead on her hand. She suddenly too empty even to keep arguing. 

Tom appeared to relax, and when he spoke again, his voice was gentler. “Look, I'm sorry, Clare, it's just not working out. You—you want to do everything the old, slow way. You can't seem to get the hang of the way we eat or dress or keep house.” He broke off as he heard the front door opening. There was a bustle in the foyer as Giovanna and the girls began pulling off their coats and hats. 

Clare looked up at Tom. “All I wanted was to be with family,” she said with a calm born of sudden exhaustion. 

“Family? Look, Clare, I know how much that means to you. I've tried to be the family you want, but we're ten generations apart. That's not really family any more.”

“Really? It was family before you published that paper,” she said quietly. “And if you're not family, then who is?”

Tom put his head down, seemingly embarrassed. Giovanna had come into the room and was now standing beside him. She started to say something, but Tom quickly leaned over, whispered something in her ear, and ushered her out of the room. Clare sat alone, lost in her thoughts, missing Donald even as she blamed him for being behind this predicament.

At that moment, Emilia passed by on her way to the kitchen. She casually flung her jacket onto the sofa, ignoring it when it slid off onto the floor.

“Pick that up, sweetie,” Clare said absently. 

Emilia rolled her eyes. “You're not my mother.”


	4. Chapter 4

Retreating to her own room, Clare was torn between having a good cry and throwing something. Preferably, she wanted to throw something that would shatter with a satisfying crash, like the vases in Tom's curio cabinet. Instead, she threw her pillow against the wall, then curled up on her bed and let a few angry tears escape. All she had ever really wanted was to be a wife and mother, but now she was... what, exactly? An obsolete housewife. A historical curiosity.`  
After a few minutes, she propped herself up on her elbow and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Then she picked up her PADD from the nightstand and began paging through the genealogy charts stored there. Most of her family's vital records had been destroyed during World War III or the Romulan War. The surviving records had yielded a mere handful of relatives alive in this century. She had already met most of those who were still on earth. She had had dinner with some of them. Over time, it was all the same: Clare was an interesting oddity, but nobody in this busy century had much time for a spare great-grandma, unless one of the kids had a history project due at school. In fact, a few of them gave her the impression that it was decidedly creepy to have an ancient ancestor suddenly revived, as if she were some sort of zombie.

There was one name she had always skimmed over up till now: Claire Pertwee, born in upstate New York in 2152. That other Claire, Eddie's great-great-great-great-granddaughter, had moved offworld at the age of twenty-five. After that, the records concerning her fell silent. What if Claire Pertwee's descendants were still alive on some colony world somewhere? Clare found herself wondering if she had children out among the stars. “Among the stars.” The phrase stirred her imagination. It sounded visionary and adventurous, but also forbiddingly distant. Moreover, she was at a loss to know how to track them down among the hundreds of populated worlds in the Federation. 

Besides, would she even be willing to leave the earth again, if she found them? 

She wondered, briefly, whether or not to contact Ralph Offenhouse for advice. Ralph had a good head on his shoulders. But, then, he was the sort of single-minded person who would probably miss the whole point. He would tell her that her personal story was worth something in terms of remuneration, and she should stop giving free interviews to Tom and his cronies. Ralph would get her an agent and a six-figure contract--or whatever the equivalent was nowadays--the whole question of family dynamics slipping neatly over his head. 

Besides, Ralph was living offworld himself these days. At last report, he was engaged in some sort of joint business venture between the Bank of Bolius and a Ferengi investment consortium. No, Ralph was not the answer.

When it came to outer space, the logical source of information would be Starfleet. So be it, then: to Starfleet, as personified by Deanna Troi, Clare would appeal for help.

Clare and Deanna still wrote to each other on a regular basis. Clare especially looked forward to their live chats on the rare occasions when the Enterprise was within instant communications range. Deanna was always interested in hearing how Clare managed to juggle the disorienting mix of time-shift, bereavement, and petty fame. Clare, for her part, found the counselor's endless patience soothing, especially in contrast to Professor Tom's irritability.

Settling back against the headboard, Clare began composing her letter. Depending on the location of the Enterprise, a subspace message might reach Deanna in a few seconds or a few days. Clare almost preferred the longer wait. It would give her time to steel her nerves before once again heading out into the vastness of space. At least this time, the departure would be voluntary and conscious. 

When the answer finally came, to her delight, it was in the form of a real-time call from Deanna.

“Boy, are you ever a sight for sore eyes, Deanna! Where are you right now?” 

“We're in earth orbit. The Enterprise is docked at McKinley Station for repairs. And we've managed to find the information you wanted on Claire Pertwee.”

“ 'We?' ”

“Commander Data helped me. He's an expert at ferreting out obscure bits of information.”

Clare leaned eagerly toward the comm unit. “So what did he ferret out on Claire?”

“He managed to track down her descendants,” Deanna said. “He's even ready to tell you how to contact them. I'll patch you through to him in a minute.” Deanna paused. “But first, I need to warn you that you may be surprised at the results. Clare, I know you felt uncomfortable around aliens at first. Would you be willing to visit your family if they lived among aliens?”

“Gee, I thought they'd be on a human colony world. But—yes. Yes, just point me in the right direction, and I'll go. I may as well be brave about the whole thing.” 

Deanna nodded. “Next question. You know my background, so you're aware that humans and non-humans sometimes marry and produce offspring together, right?”

Clare furrowed her brow in puzzlement. “What's that got to do with...?” Her voice trailed off as a bizarre new thought took shape. “Deanna...” She paused a moment, hoping Deanna would contradict her before she could even form the words. “You're not saying, my grandchildren are _aliens_?”

“Yes, Clare, that's exactly what I'm saying. Claire Pertwee married a native of the planet Vulcan. Your descendants there aren't human. They're Vulcan.”

\- - -

Clare never knew how she managed to hold herself together for the next few minutes to talk to Commander Data. No doubt it helped that Data himself was so unflappable. _At least I didn't faint when I got the news_ , she thought. _I must finally be getting used to this century._

“We have located one Sorik of Vulcan, a direct descendant of Claire Pertwee and her Vulcan husband, Sovkol,” Data was explaining. “He lives in in Raal province. If you like, I can assist you in contacting him.”

“Yes! I want to contact him. At least, I think I do. Would he even be willing to meet me? He wouldn't have to come here. I'd be willing to travel to Vulcan. How soon could we contact him?”

“If you will prepare a message, I can send it immediately. A subspace message will reach Vulcan within forty minutes. However, since it is nearly midnight in the Raal province, you should not anticipate a response before tomorrow.”

Clare took a deep breath to keep herself calm. “Okay. I'll write out a message and we can send it later today.” _Only, what do you say to your alien grandchildren on another planet?_ “Hello, this is your Grandma Raymond. I'm an earthling, back from the dead after four hundred years”? 

“Commander Data, would you patch me back to Counselor Troi? A little counseling would hit the spot right about now.” _Either that, or a shot of Jack Daniels. If they still make it._

When Deanna reappeared, Clare said, “Hey, I could use some company. Would you like to beam down and have dinner with me tomorrow? I think I'm one of about twelve remaining humans who still cook from scratch.”

Deanna seemed pleased at the suggestion. “I'd love that. We don't get home-cooked meals very often on a starship.”

“Then bring someone with you. Bring Commander Data—he can eat food, can't he? And bring anyone else you can round up. I love cooking for a crowd.” Clare paused and then smiled slyly. “I'm going to make one last glorious mess in Professor Tom's kitchen before I move out.”

\- - -

Professor Tom was not present at Clare's dinner party. He had decided to eat at Giovanna's that night rather than face an entire meal of unreplicated food. The dinner guests were Deanna, Data, Data's friend Geordi, and several random young crewmen of the sort who are perpetually hungry. 

As Clare led her guests to the dining room, Data commented on the music playing softly in the background. “An unusual arrangement of Blustein's 'Solar Eclipse.' I believe that composer slightly postdates your own era.”

“You're a jazz fan, I take it?” replied Clare.

“We have a good friend who loves jazz,” Deanna said. “Everything except dixieland jazz, because he says you can't dance to it.”

The young crewmen didn't contribute much to the conversation, but they enjoyed the food with such relish that it made up for several months' worth of snide remarks from Tom and Giovanna. The meal was homemade mushroom and spinach lasagne, washed down with a couple of very large bottles of Chateau Picard. The wine was a gift from Data. He had researched the hospitality customs of Clare's era, concluding that such an offering was both appropriate and expected.

Over the salad, Deanna brought up Clare's trip. “Are you getting any braver about facing aliens, now that you're hoping to go offworld?” 

“I just keep embarrassing myself,” admitted Clare. “One time, Professor Tom brought home a Vulcan colleague for dinner, and I'd made beef bourgignon with a death-by-chocolate cake for dessert.” Her guests burst into laughter, which Clare couldn't help joining. After the laughter died down, she continued, “No one told me they were vegetarians. It's like I'm just supposed to know stuff without anyone bothering to tell me.”

“And now you're about to become an expert on Vulcan ways,” said Geordi.

“If they'll have me,” Clare replied. “At least it's supposed to be one of the closer planets. Right in the neighborhood, Professor Tom tells me.”

“The star which Vulcan orbits is sixteen point four-five light years from earth,” Data said. “In terms more familiar to you, that is approximately ninety-six trillion, seven-hundred three billion, three hundred eighty-seven million, three hundred eight-eight thousand miles.”

Put that way, it didn't sound so close, but tonight Clare's spirits were buoyant, thanks to high hopes and the Chateau Picard. “So how long would it take me to get there?”

“Well, it depends on how you travel,” Geordi replied. “A high-end cruise ship would get you there in about six days at warp five. On a freighter with a low-priority cargo that's only doing warp four or so, it would take a couple of months. Enterprise could do it in a day, in a pinch and at top warp.”

She took a sip of wine. “Let's wait and see if they even want me first, before I figure out how to get there. Oh, Deanna, I try not to get my hopes up, but if this doesn't work out, they might as well just stick me back in the deep freeze and not thaw me out till somebody asks for me by name.”

Just as Clare finished setting out dessert--caramelized pears topped with homemade cinnamon ice cream—the comm unit beeped. She glanced at the screen and caught her breath. “This is it. From Vulcan,” she announced. Her guests looked at her expectantly, dessert spoons poised in their hands. “If you hear something thumping, it's my heart,” she said as she crossed the room toward the comm. She opened the message and silently read it, trying to take in the words. Then she read it again.

Her heart plummeted.

Clare looked back at the table full of guests. She tried, bravely, unconvincingly, to smile as she read the message aloud. “ 'We are amenable to hosting you on Vulcan at your earliest convenience.' ” She quickly blinked back the tears. “That's all? They're 'amenable'? When it's 'convenient'? That doesn't sound very welcoming.” 

There was an awkward pause from the guests. Then Geordi's laughter broke the silence. “Are you kidding?” he asked. “That's Vulcan for, 'Get on over here, girl. What are you waiting for?' ”


	5. Chapter 5

The Enterprise had departed McKinley station. Clare had spent the last couple of days making arrangments for her trip, and now she was relaxing in the kitchen with Lizzie.

It wasn't quite late enough to turn in for the night, but things were winding down. Professor Tom was playing some sort of electronic game with Giovanna and Emilia in the living room. Clare was sitting at the table, crocheting a beret for Lizzie, who had just finished her algebra homework and was putting her PADD back into her schoolbag. “I wish I were going with you,” Lizzie said. “The only place I ever go is to school. And on vacations with Mom and Tom, but those don't count because they're just on earth. This is such a boring planet.”

“I kind of like it, myself,” Clare said. “Besides, I'd take you with me, but I think your mom might miss you too much. Is there something special you'd like me to bring back for you?”

“A sehlat,” Lizzie said.

Clare smiled. “Male or female?”

“Doesn't matter. Just make it a baby one.”

“One baby sehlat, then, coming right up as soon as I get back from Vulcan. But watch out for the fangs and claws.”

Lizzie collapsed into giggles. “Mom would just die if you really did bring me one.”

“Well, we can't have that, now, can we?” Clare replied. “Do you want me to show you where I'm going? We could go outside and look for it.”

“You mean you can see Vulcan from here?”

“Well, sometimes you can see the star it orbits. Grab your jacket and come with me.”

Bundled up against the cold, Clare and Lizzie went out into Professor Tom's large backyard, the snow crunching under their feet. It was just the sort of night on which Clare and Donald had loved to take their dogs walking in the snow, pulling Tommy and Eddie along on their sleds behind them.

Lizzie interrupted Clare's thoughts. “How do you know where to look for Vulcan?” 

“When I was a little girl, we used to spend summer vacations and Christmas breaks at my grandparents' farm in Pennsylvania,” Clare said. “The sky was always so clear out in the country. That's when my mother taught me the constellations. Now I'm glad she did.” 

“Why?” asked Lizzie.

“Because they're something that hasn't changed in four hundred years. The same constellations are still there, just like old friends.”

The sky was clear and moonless. Fortunately, Professor Tom's house was on the outskirts of town, away from the glare of city lights. Clare and Lizzie stood there for a few minutes, letting their eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. Gradually, the darkness resolved itself into distinct shapes: the black arches of the bare tree branches against the inky blue of the sky; the stars like brittle sequins in the crispness of the night air. Up there were all the winter friends her mother had introduced to her: Gemini and Perseus, Pegasus and the hunter Orion. “Do you see Orion, Lizzie? If you look just to the right of Orion, down by his foot, that's where the River, Eridanus, begins.” Clare directed Lizzie's attention, star by star, along the topmost curl of Eridanus. “See that dim star right there? That's 40 Eridani A. That's Vulcan's sun.”

Lizzie, shivering a bit from the cold, wrapped her arms around herself and leaned against Clare's side. “Wow, it seems so far away. Will you write to me, and send pictures? I've never been offworld before.”

Clare put her arm around Lizzie's shoulders and squeezed. “Of course.”

They were silent for a moment together. Then Lizzie asked, almost shyly, “Clare, what was it like being dead?”

“I don't think I was ever really dead,” Clare said slowly. “I figure, if I were dead, I'd be in heaven with Donald and the boys by now. Back in the twentieth century, there was this idea called 'brain death'. It wasn't really the same as being all the way dead, but it let the doctors do things they couldn't usually do to someone who was still alive. I guess they convinced Donald I was brain dead so they could freeze me and launch me into space. So, here I am. Still alive.”

Behind them, the back door opened, and a ribbon of light flooded out onto the snow. “Lizzie, it's time we were going,” called Giovanna. “You've got school tomorrow.”

After Lizzie went in, Clare remained outside, gazing at the stars a little longer. Sorik and his family were out there, waiting to meet her. What would they think of her? Would she like them? Vulcans were telepaths, so everyone said. She concentrated her thoughts toward the distant pinprick of light that was Vulcan's sun. _I'm thinking of you. Can you hear me? Can you feel me? Here I am. I'm coming to you...._ To herself, she wondered, _But am I ready for this?_

Just a few years ago, according to Clare's sense of time, there had been another backyard ringed with trees. The sun was setting in pink and gold glory, the fireflies were beginning to flicker lazily about the yard, and the air smelled of freshly mowed grass. She was at home in New Jersey. Two tow-headed little boys were crouched behind the trees, stifling their giggles while she pretended to have no idea where they were hiding. Clare was holding her hands over her eyes as she counted loudly toward the trees, “...eighteen, nineteen, twenty! Ready or not, here I come!” 

Clare gave herself up to the memory for a long moment, before forcing herself back to the present. It shouldn't have been Clare who was getting ready to leave the planet for an uncertain meeting with unknown beings. It should have been Donald. Clare was the sensible one, the one who always weighed all the options and considered the possible outcomes. Donald was the one to leap before he looked, always exuberant about anything new and untried. Donald would have told her, “C'mon, Babe, nothing ventured, nothing gained.” And he would have been right. 

She looked back up at the starry sky and vowed softly to herself, “Ready or not, here I go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note to readers: It's tax season here in the US, so I may be too busy to update for a little while. The first draft is finished, though, so please be assured that the story won't be abandoned. It's just a matter of editing and revising. Clare will be back as soon as I can manage. Thanks for your patience!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note to fans of _Star Trek: Enterprise _. I draw primarily on TOS & TNG for canon. Since _Enterprise_ occasionally conflicts with the previous series, I'll be deviating from _Enterprise_ canon to some extent in this  & the following chapters. As always, feel free to consider my story AU if you prefer.__

Even in a supposedly moneyless society, some luxuries were beyond the means of a mere museum docent. Passage aboard an interstellar passenger liner was one of those luxuries. Undeterred, Clare managed to book a berth on an Andorian freighter making the rounds between Vulcan, Earth, and Andoria. The three-week trip to Vulcan would give her just enough time to read up on Vulcan manners and customs. Her PADD was loaded with books such as _It's Only Logical: A Visitor's Guide to Life Among the Vulcans_ ; _Conversational Golic Made Easy_ ; and _The Essential Vulcan Phrasebook_. It wasn't that Clare expected to learn the Vulcan language. Most Vulcans were fluent in Federation Standard, which was more or less a synonym for English. It was just that having the books gave her the comforting illusion that she could prepare for the unimaginable.

As the only passenger on this leg of the trip, Clare was promptly invited to joined the captain's table for evening meals. Captain Shaheed was a large, bluff Andorian with a booming voice and hearty manner. Their table was shared by Trevhad, the Andorian XO, and Kosha, the diminitive Ithenite purser. 

Captain Shaheed wasted no time giving Clare his opinion of her destination. “So, what takes an attractive young woman such as yourself to that dustball full of leaf-eating prigs?” He didn't wait for Clare to answer. “You're planning to attend the Vulcan Science Academy, no doubt.” He chortled as if he had just said something witty. Then he added in a more serious tone, “Well, don't worry. We'll get you there, if that's where you're determined to go. But you won't like Vulcan. Or the Vulcans.”

It was on the tip of Clare's tongue to tell him that she had Vulcan relatives, but then she decided that this strange alien didn't really need to know her personal business just yet. Not that it mattered, since Captain Shaheed seemed more interested in his own opinions than in anything Clare had to say. “Why won't I like Vulcan?” she asked.

“Well, for one thing, they have no sense of humor,” the Captain replied. “Laugh out loud on Vulcan, and they'll look at you as if you just decided to strip off all your clothes and prance naked through the center of town.”

“Vulcans consider it unseemly to show any open emotion,” explained Trevhad. 

“And they're the most insufferable know-it-alls you could meet,” continued the captain. “Do you know, you can't even say thank you to one of them without getting insulted for your trouble?”

Clare toyed with the slice of spicy dark brown bread on her plate. “What's wrong with saying thank you?”

“The problem is, if you did something good for someone, then obviously it was the logical thing to do. And you don't thank logic. Just another excuse to look down on outsiders, if you ask me. Here, try the vithi,” he said, changing topics without warning. He ladled a large helping of something that looked like roasted onions onto Clare's plate. “And have some of the redbat sauce with your beans,” he added. “Eat up now, because you won't get anything like this on Vulcan.”

“They don't serve meat,” Trevhad said. “They don't approve of wearing leather or fur, either. I swatted a couple of flies there on shore leave, once, and received an unwelcome lecture on the sanctity of life.”

“But that's okay,” Clare said. “I'll be fine without any meat. The truth is, I'm looking forward to learning Vulcan cookery... although this is very good, too,” she added hastily, hoping no one would think she was insulting the food in front of her. The redbat sauce was rather tasty, in spite of its dubious main ingredient.

Some evenings they discussed other subjects—Andorian history, the favorite types of music on their respective worlds, the logistics of interstellar shipping and the best way to deal with overzealous customs inspectors in various star systems—but the topic frequently returned to the many peculiarities of the Vulcan people. It was evidently a subject near and dear to Andorian hearts.

“Avoid your human custom of shaking hands,” Trevhad advised her. “Vulcans don't like physical contact. And whatever you do, never touch a Vulcan child, especially a baby.” 

The captain nodded. “Vulcan babies are strictly off limits. Don't go grabbing any babies.”

This advice struck Clare as both odd and unnecessary. Fond though she was of small children, it would never occur her to “go grabbing” one. Maybe grabbing random babies was something they did on Andoria? She asked, “So what's the big deal with Vulcan babies? Don't tell me they bite.”

Captain Shaheed humphed and waggled his antennae. “No. It's because they're touch-telepaths. Babies haven't learned to shield their minds yet. The families try to protect them from developing unwanted mental bonds with outsiders. Whatever you do, don't go imprinting their little minds. Vulcans claim they never get angry, but if you want to see them make a liar out of themselves, just mess with their kids.”

“I get it,” Clare said. “Hands off the Vulcan babies.” 

She sighed, wondering if Sorik had children of his own. Surely he was old enough, though come to think of it, she wasn't sure exactly how old he was. She hoped he wouldn't turn out to be some rebellious Vulcan teen-ager who had invited her on a whim just to annoy his parents. She had never seen a picture of Sorik, since Sorik (like Clare) evidently preferred to exchange text messages instead of vids. His messages were always on the terse side, giving Clare no clue to his personality. He was Vulcan, and he was Eddie's descendant, which was all she knew about him. Yet, without quite realizing it, in some wishful recess of her mind, she had begun to picture Sorik as five-year-old Eddie himself, but with dark hair and pointed ears. 

“No meat, no fur, no leather. Okay, I can handle all that. But the other stuff? No showing obvious emotion. No interacting with small children. Boy, this is going to be a brand new experience for me. Everything that makes me Clare seems to be exactly what I shouldn't do.”

Kosha, the ship's purser, slipped out of his chair and then spoke to Clare for the first time. “Surely no Vulcan would find fault with a lady as kind and gentle as you, Mrs. Raymond. Please pardon me now. I must get back to my duties.” He gave a small bow and then left, followed by Trevhad. Clare was touched and cheered by the tiny purser's gallantry.

But once the captain and Clare were alone, she allowed herself to express a few more doubts. “Well, I guess this is what I signed up for,” she said, “so wish me luck. One way or another, this is going to be the vacation of a lifetime.” She hoped it wouldn't be as unpleasant as the Andorians made it sound, but there was no point in saying so to Captain Shaheed.

Shaheed reached into a cupboard for a bottle and a couple of shot glasses. He poured something clear and blue into the glasses, then slid one across the table to Clare. The liquid gave off a pungent odor suggestive of fermenting horseradish mixed with ginger. “Here. This'll help you put things in perspective. It'll open up your sinuses, too.” Leaning closer and dropping his voice to a near-whisper, he added conspiratorially, “You don't have to mention this to the customs folks on Vulcan. Not my fault, now, is it, if a bottle or two of the good stuff manages to find its way across the Neutral Zone every now and then.”

Clare eyed the blue liquid cautiously. Alien booze. She couldn't guess whether it might poison her, put her to sleep for the next week, or cause her to go swinging off the bulkheads in the cargo bay singing show tunes at the top of her lungs. “Thanks,” she said, not sure if she meant it. She took a sip, and then burst into a fit of startled coughing. “Wow, that's, um, potent,” she gasped, after she caught her breath back. She took another, smaller sip, then another. The fire in her throat gradually mellowed into a soothing warmth. By the time she was halfway through the glass, she was feeling floaty and talkative. “You know,” she confided, “I'm not really sure what I'm expecting from this whole trip. Sometimes I just feel sort of alone in the universe, know what I mean?”

The captain gave her a jovial leer and swiveled his antennae around toward her. “Well, by all means feel free to stop by my cabin if you want some company of an evening. Give me a chance, and perhaps I could make you forget all about getting off at Vulcan.” 

Returning to her quarters, Clare thought, _I've just been hit on by an alien with blue skin._ Life didn't get much weirder than this for a twentieth-century gal from Seacaucus.


	7. Chapter 7

For all his bluster, Captain Shaheed kept his hands to himself. Clare never took him up on his after-hours invitation, and he continued to treat her as a favored audience for his endless opinions. On the final evening of her journey, he announced, “You'll be beaming down planetside in about five hours. It'll be early morning in ShiKahr. I must say, I've enjoyed having a sharp, good-looking female passenger like yourself aboard to talk to at meals.”

“I bet you say that to all the sharp, good-looking female passengers,” Clare replied.

“No, actually, we don't get that many,” Shaheed said. “Word's got out somehow that I try to monopolize their attention. Must be the competition spreading rumors. Those Vulcan shipping conglomerates are always looking for ways to undercut my business.”

Clare bit down hard on her lips to keep from smiling. “Must be,” she agreed. “Well, thanks for everything, Captain. Safe journeys.”

The captain nodded. “Send a message if you decide to go back home ahead of schedule. There'll always be a berth open for you on this ship.”

 - - -

 After the chilly air in the Andorian ship, the heat of ShiKahr hit Clare like a blow.

She was wearing her coolest dress, a flowing, sleeveless shift in a print of stylized flowers. There was a chiffon stole draped about her shoulders. As she stepped out of the customs office, the hot, gritty wind began to blow her hair about. She rearranged the stole to cover her head and shoulders, like a Vulcan woman. Unused to the higher gravity, she shuffled across the square as if weights were tied to her boots.

Sorik had already transmitted an itinerary and travel passes to her PADD. She spent the next few hours traveling to Raal province via high-speed surface rail.

Subdued by the heat, the thin air, and the strangeness of her surroundings, she had little to say to any of the other passengers. It was enough just to sit at the window and drink in the exotic landscapes flying by. The rusty red deserts of the ShiKahr region gave way to farmlands and patches of dark green forest full of strange conifers and succulents. The railcar made several stops at towns along the way. There were towns where ancient stone buildings, graced with carvings as elaborate as lace, squatted next to soaring glass pinnacles. There were other towns that looked like adobe beehives clinging to the sides of hills. Finally, just as the sparkling beaches of the Voroth Sea came into view, the rail turned inland on a spur toward the city where Sorik lived.

A taxibot was waiting for her at the station. Clare climbed in and let the bot navigate through the streets. It stopped in front of a low, rambling stucco house. By now, Clare had abandoned all pretense at calm and was grinning in nervous anticipation. She tried to force her face into an acceptably stoic mask, but her eagerness bubbled out of her like a fountain. A Vulcan man of indeterminate age, wearing an olive green mantle over a high-necked dark suit, was waiting for her on the granite portico. “Sorik?” Clare called out eagerly, alighting from the car.

The man held up his hand in the _ta'al_ , the Vulcan salute. “I am Tuvoth,” he replied. “Sorik awaits you inside.” He gestured toward the large open door. Clare hastily returned the salute, then scurried up the short granite staircase, still beaming broadly. She stepped inside, then waited for Tuvoth to precede her into the interior. 

They passed through a vestibule into an open, lofty room with dark plum-colored walls and polished stone floors. Large windows filtered the reddish sunlight. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw there were about two dozen other Vulcans of various ages and both sexes, all taking her measure without expression.

Their solemnity undercut her confidence. It struck her in that moment how foolish it had been to expect that these aliens could ever feel like family. They were so different from her: their glossy black hair, the sallow tinge of their skin, and those elegant ears that made them look like creatures out of mythology. Her smile faltered. She hoped her too-obvious emotions hadn't offended anyone.

One of the women stepped forward, a wizened matriarch in trailing robes whose silvery hair was a mass of convoluted braids. Tuvoth said, “Allow me to present her, who is my foremother.”

The older woman gave the _ta'al_ and said, “Live long and prosper, Clare Raymond. You honor us with your presence. I am T'Prel, mistress of this house.”

Clare returned the salute, conscious of the Andorian's advice not to try to shake hands. “The honor is all mine, T'Prel,” she replied nervously. “I'm so pleased to meet you. Thank you all for having me here.” _Gosh, I hope that's the right thing to say_ , she thought, but the family's faces gave no clue. They simply continued to observe her with detached courtesy.

It was one thing to hear other people describe Vulcan aloofness, or to observe it in Tom's infrequent Vulcan dinner guests. Being surrounded by an entire room full of emotionless people was a different matter. Clare would have welcomed the slightest of smiles, or any spontaneous move forward by the others to greet her. _Come on, people, I'm the visitor. It's not my job to make myself feel welcome_ , she thought. _Work with me on this_. She decided to risk an attempt at humor. Maybe that would provoke the desired reaction. “So, where's my kiddo, Sorik?”

As one, the Vulcans turned their gaze toward a long couch at the far end of the room. Upon the couch was an old, old Vulcan man, reclining against a nest of pillows. His thinning gray-white hair looked as if it had not been cut for many weeks. His skin was mottled and sagging. He was studying Clare intently, almost expectantly, as though he had been waiting a lifetime for her.

Clare approached the couch, stopping within an arm's length of the old man. She fought back the urge to lean over and take his frail hands in hers. Slowly, he raised one hand in the _ta'al._ When he spoke, his voice was faint and raspy. “I recognized you as soon as I saw your smile,” he said. “It was my mother's smile.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

Sorik was old, even for a Vulcan. When he suffered a heart attack at the age of two hundred and eleven earth years, he concluded that the time was at hand to pass his on his _katra_ and make peace with mortality. 

Then came a subspace message from an earth woman making an extraordinary claim. A clan council was immediately convened; various Federation databases were consulted to verify the sender's assertions, along with certain genealogical records brought to Vulcan many decades ago by one Claire Pertwee; and the invitation was sent. The hope of meeting this improbable ancestor had kept Sorik stubbornly refusing to yield to illness or death.

He would allow no one but himself to write messages to Clare. Since illness had sapped most of his strength, the messages were short to the point of being curt, from a human point of view. From the Vulcan perspective, the messages were entirely adequate, containing all the information Clare needed to reach her destination. Clare, receiving these brief little missives in faraway Indianapolis, had no idea of the stir that was being made on her behalf in a star system sixteen light years away. 

She learned all of this during the blur of her first scary, happy, exhausting afternoon with Sorik's family.

The twenty-odd people who had gathered to greet her were the residents of Sorik's own household, who as Clare later discovered, represented only a fraction of his extended family. T'Prel, of course, was Sorik's wife, and Tuvoth was one of their grandsons. Tuvoth and his wife, T'Vikka, had several children of their own, ranging from Xon, the youngest, to Kovol, the oldest, whose wife Linavil was due to give birth to a child of her own soon. (Clare made a mental note to start crocheting a layette.) There were ten or fifteen other children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, who greeted Clare according to a strict order of precedence. She wondered where, or whether, she would fit into the family hierarchy.

Once the introductions were over, the noonday meal was announced. Sorik and T'Prel excused themselves to dine in private, to conserve Sorik's energy. 

As the oldest son of Sorik's absent oldest son, Tuvoth presided over the meal. What the Vulcans withheld in outward emotion, they made up for in a lavish spread of food. There were platters of steaming red and yellow legumes swimming in fragrant sauce, plates of leafy greens, a savory stew of squash, nuts, and mushrooms, chewy brown flatbreads, and colorful sliced fruits drizzled with sweet oil and chopped herbs. None of it had been replicated, and the amount of effort that went into producing all of it was not lost on Clare. 

Over dinner, the Vulcans discussed what to call Clare. “Grandmother,” or as the Vulcans preferred, “foremother,” wouldn't do, since there were already a number of grandmothers in the extended family. Among all the detailed kinship terms denoting the addressee's sex, relative age, and exact position within the father's or mother's side of the family, there was nothing that meant anything close to “ancient outworlder ancestress of the clan patriarch's maternal bloodline.” Tuvoth, T'Vikka, and the others finally settled on the honorific _tsai_ , a title normally reserved for women who married into a noble family. “But in the Raal dialect,” T'Vikka explained, “we consider it an acceptable form of address for any married woman of sufficiently advanced years.” At a youthful four hundred and eight years of age, Clare qualified, if only on a technicality.

By the end of the meal, the difference between ship's time and local time was starting to catch up with Clare. Try as she would, she couldn't stifle a yawn. “You're not accustomed to our heat or our gravity,” said T'Vikka. “You require rest.” Clare was relieved to be excused from the table and from all those eyes that seemed to track and evaluate every move she made.

Tuvoth and T'Vikka's daughters escorted Clare to her room. One of them showed her how to adjust the lights and temperature, while the other closed the heavy drapes to shut out the slanting late afternoon sunlight. Then they left Clare on her own to inspect her new room and change into nightclothes.

The room was sparsely furnished, but every item was elegant in its simplicity. She hadn't expected a race devoted to logic to care so much about the way things looked. The bed had an arched headboard of wood, beautifully grained like the stripes of a tiger. There was a small black desk in one corner, with crisscrossing lines of inlaid silver along the edges. On the wall above the desk hung a handwoven rug in the colors of the Vulcan desert. As Clare climbed into bed and pulled up the covers, she wondered drowsily who had woven the rug. Its homey presence made her dare to hope that nobody here would criticize her for knitting her own socks. Then sleep claimed her, and her first day on an alien world came to an end.

For the next two days, Clare slept more than usual, as her body adjusted to the gravity and heat. Her hosts tactfully made no demands. They fed her when she was hungry, and accompanied her on strolls around the neighborhood in the early evenings, after the worst of the day's heat had passed. One or two of them, observing her at her crochet, expressed approval of her craftsmanship. “Vulcan has a rich and varied history of textile production, going back to ancient times,” one of them told her. “You may wish to call upon the Provincial Institute of Archaeological and Historical Artifacts in Vulcana Regar. Their collection of ancient garments and textile fragments is second only to that of the Academy of Historical Costume in ShiKahr .” Vulcans, as Clare was learning, managed to make even the most casual remark sound like an encyclopedia quote. Clare didn't mind. It was oddly soothing to be spoken to like an intelligent adult, compared to the patronizing treatment she had received so often on earth.

As Clare gained strength, so did Sorik. On the third day, he and T'Prel summoned Clare to sit with them after breakfast. Sorik asked, “Your quarters, are they to your satisfaction?” A little of the tired rustiness had left his voice.

“Very much so,” replied Clare. “In fact, they're beautiful. But that's one thing I don't understand about Vulcan logic. Why do you decorate things so beautifully, when it would be easier and more logical not to decorate them at all? Why do you make things by hand when you could just mass-produce them, or cook from scratch when you could use replicators? I thought everything here would be plain, but it's not like that at all.” _I thought you'd all be more like Professor Tom_ , was what she really meant, but she didn't want to burden Sorik with that story.

Sorik shook his head. “Logic,” he said, “doesn't always mean taking the easiest path. Indeed, the pursuit of logic is not an easy path itself.” 

“No,” Clare said, “I imagine not,” although she didn't really understand what he meant.

“Logic is many things,” Sorik said, “not merely the application of formal reasoning, but also acknowledging that which is fitting and appropriate to the reality of a thing. It is not illogical for something useful to be also aesthetically pleasing. One might even say it is illogical not to incorporate beauty, where beauty is appropriate.” Speaking seemed to tire him, for he closed his eyes for a minute. When he opened them again, he looked at Clare and said, “I am gratified that you have come so far to see us, Clare Raymond. I hope you will wish to learn more about out ways.” He closed his eyes again and nodded off. T'Prel ushered Clare quietly out of the room.

The day was young, so Clare headed toward the kitchen to see if she could make herself useful. When she got there, T'Vikka and Linavil were kneading dough. “Good morning, ladies! Need any help?” Clare asked.

The women looked up at her, blinking at the interruption. “We require no assistance, _Tsai_ Clare,” said T'Vikka firmly, and then both of them resumed kneading. 

“Oh. Okay, then. Maybe next time,” said Clare, surprised at the refusal.

Over the next few days, Sorik and T'Prel's other children and grandchildren began arriving from other cities and provinces. The children of Sorik's deceased brother and sisters came as well, with their broods. The only absentees were Tuvoth's parents, who lived offworld on one of the agricultural colonies, plus one or two cousins who were serving in Starfleet. Before the week was over, Clare had counted over eighty living direct descendants, to say nothing of various in-laws, collateral branches, and representatives of affiliated clans. Once again she found herself in the role of time-traveling minor celebrity. She was glad that no one asked about Khan. She hoped there were no sociologists in the group.

The adults were interesting, if sometimes mystifying, but it was the children whom Clare longed to scoop up in her arms and hug. She was charmed by their otherworldly beauty and their precocious dignity. More than once she nearly reached out to tousle some toddler's silky hair, but she always stopped herself, not sure what dire results might follow.

Most conversations went smoothly enough to create the illusion that Vulcans were humans, more or less, albeit overly serious humans. Then some bizarre situation would arise out of the blue to remind her that she truly was on another world.

On one of these occasions, Clare was happily recalling her engagement party and wedding shower for a handful of spellbound descendants. She described the festivity of the engagement party and the wedding shower, the search for the perfect fairytale gown (and why it had to be white), and the tossing of the bouquet. She even managed to explain the tin cans tied to the back of the limousine in a way that made sense to her listeners. “I think it has something to do with ancient beliefs about evil spirits that followed the bride and groom home. The noise of the cans was supposed to scare them away.” The Vulcans understood that part. There were evil spirits in their folklore, too.

“But some of this stuff must sound pretty crazy to all of you,” she admitted. “I'm sure your own weddings are much more dignified. Tell me what your ceremonies are like.” A hush fell over the room, and the Vulcans exchanged furtive sidelong glances. For an awkward moment, no one spoke. Then Tuvoth broke the silence. “Perhaps we will speak of weddings some other time.” Clare was perplexed as to what sort of strange alien etiquette she had violated this time. 

When she tried to broach the subject later in private, T'Vikka and Tuvoth only looked at her solemnly, and Tuvoth said, “We do not often speak of such things. Let us leave this topic, until you are more familiar with our ways,” leaving Clare puzzled, embarrassed, and just slightly miffed.

However, it was not Clare's nature to give up on people easily, so she rode out the ups and downs with as much grace as she could manage. Besides, she had come too far—literally—not to build as many bridges as she could with her these strange relatives of hers. Fortunately, Vulcan curiosity was on her side, for these were a people who pursued every opportunity to acquire and analyze new information. She answered endless questions about herself, her family, and her world. She did her best to help the Vulcans understand the human mindset behind her more baffling anecdotes, such as the one about Donald gorging himself sick by competing in a hotdog-eating contest when he was in high school. She never did succeed in explaining that one. She made sure to ask almost as many questions as she answered, since Vulcans were as eager to impart information as they were to acquire it. 

After a couple of weeks on Vulcan, Clare decided to make another attempt at helping out in the kitchen. This time, T'Vikka was overseeing two of Tuvoth's nieces. The nieces were peeling root vegetables, and T'Vikka was grinding spices in a mortar. “Need a fourth set of hands, ladies?” Clare asked hopefully. 

“A fourth set?” asked T'Vikka. “I assume you mean your own? We have adequate labor for the task at at hand.”

“I'm available if you change your mind,” Clare said. Maybe it was considered bad manners on Vulcan to intrude in someone else's kitchen. She wondered if she would ever get all the rules figured out. 

_I'm a fish in the middle of the desert_ , Clare decided. She ran down a mental checklist of things that were forbidden: showing emotions, handling small children, talking about weddings, and now, apparently, helping out with the cooking. It's not that she didn't like Vulcans; in fact, she was growing quite fond of them. But really, was there no end to their incomprehensible taboos?


	9. Chapter 9

“ _Tsai_ Clare, you are causing excessive confusion among the women of this household.”

Tuvoth accosted Clare with this accusation about a month after her arrival. 

“Well, turn-about is fair play,” Clare retorted playfully. “I've been on a first-name basis with confusion ever since I got here.” Then, seeing that Tuvoth was in earnest—even more so than usual--she added, “Just kidding, Tuvoth. Humans do that. What's the problem?”

Tuvoth was insistent. “You appear to eat heartily enough at meals, yet T'Vikka informs me that on two separate occasions, you have indicated a concern that the kitchen is understaffed. This must logically reflect some dissatisfaction with the preparations.”

In that instant, T'Vikka's chilly refusals of help made sense. Clare felt a little thrill of relief. “I was offering to help because I wanted to learn how you cook,” she hastened to explain. “Back home, I used to love cooking for my family. I thought maybe I could do the same thing here, some of the time.”

Tuvoth considered this, then said, “Ah, this was an example of your imprecise human communication? The human tendency toward oblique expressions is well documented. You have generally been straightforward with us, _Tsai_ Clare, but I see that we must learn to be alert for some degree of indirectness on your part.” Clare, who was beginning to distinguish the nuances of Vulcan expression, thought she detected satisfaction in his voice. “Very well, then,” he continued, “I shall tell T'Vikka that there has been a misunderstanding. Thank you for clarifying this. We meet so few offworlders in this region. We haven't yet had time to become familiar with all your ways.”

“But Sorik is part human,” objected Clare.

“Sorik has always followed the Vulcan way, and there is none of us now living who can remember his mother. You are the first opportunity this household has had to observe one of your kind at close quarters. I look forward to learning more about your most interesting species.” 

_Boy, are these people ever literal_ , thought Clare. But she couldn't help feeling that she had just made an important breakthrough. Further, Tuvoth had acknowledged as a member of “an interesting species,” which was probably a compliment, considering the source. Maybe things were starting to look up.

That day, when it was time to start the evening meal, Clare gathered up her courage and sallied into the kitchen once again. T'Vikka was there with Linavil, who was standing at an awkward angle to the counter in order to accommodate her bulging abdomen. Judging from the mound of sliced cactus fruits on the counter and the large jug of vinegar nearby, the women were engaged in pickle-making. “I'd like to learn how to make Vulcan meals,” Clare announced. “Besides, Linavil, you look like you could use a rest. Let me help out.”

Tuvoth must have told T'Vikka about Clare's desire to cook, for T'Vikka merely nodded with no sign of surprise and said, “You would be most welcome to assist, _Tsai_ Clare.” 

Linavil added, “I am well, but I too would welcome your assistance.”

Clare was so pleased that she forgot about being calm. “Really? That's wonderful! I love cooking! I mean--” Recalling the Andorian crews' warnings about emotional displays, she tried to rein in her enthusiasm. “Sorry to sound so gushy, but I really do love to cook. I hope it's not rude for me to sound a little emotional about things sometimes. All it means is that I really care.”

“The people of your world are known for their open displays of emotion,” said T'Vikka, moving over to make a place for Clare at the counter. “It would be illogical for us to expect you to act otherwise.” 

“Nor do we find you rude,” added Linavil. She pushed a knife and a basket full of uncut fruits toward Clare. “The presence of an offworlder in this house is by no means as burdensome as one might have expected.”

“Indeed,” said T'Vikka, “We have found you to be most adaptable.”

Clare was elated. Now that she was more familiar with Vulcan understatement, she chalked their comments up as the equivalent of, “No problem! We like you!” Yes, things were definitely looking up.

That was a turning point for Clare. Being welcomed into the kitchen made her feel as if she were, if not quite a member of the immediate family, then at least a member of the same team. T'Vikka and the other women oversaw her introduction to Vulcan cooking and their ways of gardening. The older children taught her some of their simpler games of logic, and she taught them some basic knitting. She was particularly pleased on one unseasonably cool evening (cool to the Vulcans, not to Clare) to see one of the boys sporting a pair of wool wrist-warmers he had made for himself under her direction. Tuvoth's oldest son, Kovol, tried to teach her to play the Vulcan lyre as well, but Clare had never been much of a musician. She sheepishly gave up the attempt after deciding that the harmonic valves were too much to master without growing an extra hand or two.

Sometimes T'Vikka or one of the other women took her to the city's open-air markets, where she learned to haggle, Vulcan style, for produce. (“You appear to have a surplus of plomeek. It would be logical for you to reduce your asking price.”) Clare also purchased gifts from the market to send back home. There were a fossilized Vulcan fern for Tom's curio cabinet, embroidered veils that Giovanna and Emilia could wear as shoulder wraps over their sundresses, and for Lizzie, a necklace with an amber pendant shaped like a baby sehlat.

Clare was, as T'Vikka had said, proving herself adaptable. Of course there were setbacks, such as when Clare made jokes that fell flat, but on the whole her place within the household was becoming more and more comfortable. Clare herself didn't realize how far she had come, until one day while she was answering a letter from Sonny Clemonds, who had written from Risa to tell her about a gig his band was playing there. In her reply, she found herself referring to Sorik's family as “my kids here on Vulcan.” Vulcan was finding its way into her heart. 

As Sorik recovered his strength, Clare was able to spend more and more time with him. One of many surprises awaiting her on Vulcan was the fact that she and Donald had always been known to Sorik's family by name, thanks to the efforts of Claire Pertwee's father. James Pertwee had been an enthusiastic genealogist. When Claire Pertwee left the planet of her birth, her father had made sure that she carried a copy of the family tree.

During one one of their talks after dinner, Sorik surprised Clare by asking, “Are you happy among us?”

“You're like nothing I could have imagined,” said Clare, “but every now and then, there are things that make me feel like I almost belong here. I love the way your people respect things that are beautiful and old. I like the way people listen to me, like what I have to say really matters. At first it was hard when everyone seemed so distant and cold, but now it feels more like a gift. It's like being granted...” she searched for the right words, “...emotional privacy, I guess you could call it.” She fought down the memory of how Professor Tom had published parts of her private memoir for all his colleagues to read. “It wasn't always like that on earth.”

“You guard your words carefully when you speak of your life in Indianapolis,” said Sorik, “but I and the other family elders suspect that you left your own planet because you were no longer at ease there. I cannot know how much time is left to me, but you would still have a place here even after I am gone. Perhaps you would stay, and embrace the serenity which we find in logic.”

“Give up my emotions?” Clare sat back and shook her head with finality. “No, Sorik. My emotions are _me _. They're what made me the woman Donald loved. They're what made me come looking for you. I could never give up who I really am. Maybe I could stay, but the only reason I could, is because I'm _not_ one of you.”__

Sorik tilted his head questioningly. “I do not understand your logic.” 

“What I mean is that I expected to fit in with Prof... with my relatives on earth. That was family. The grandson I lived with even looked like Donald. So when I couldn't fit in, it didn't make sense. It hurt.” She looked at Sorik to see if he was following. When he nodded, she continued. “But here, I knew you'd all be aliens. I knew there would always be gaps that could never be bridged. At first it was rough getting used to them, and sometimes it still is. But now it's okay if I never completely fit in.” 

“You would find it acceptable to remain an outsider?” asked Sorik. “Why?” 

“Because,” Clare said quietly, “it's easier to accept that you'll always be different, when there's a reason why you really are.” 

“Ahhh,” said Sorik, understanding at last. He stared silently into space for a long time, seeing something that was hidden to Clare's eyes. The ghosts of several emotions flickered across his face, barely discernible. He did not speak again until his control was perfect. 

“Claire Pertwee died when I was very young. It is not logical to prolong one's grief, but I have often considered it a most unfortunate loss. It is difficult to lose one's mother at such an early age.” 

“That's how Eddie must have felt,” Clare murmured. 

__“Yes. I always believed that I had much in common with your son. We both lost our mothers much too early. They say your son never truly recovered from losing his mother at such a young age.” He paused. “Nor, I believe, did I.”_ _

__“You mother must have been amazing, to pull up stakes and move to a whole new world. I wish I could have known her.”_ _

“My memories of her are few, but still strong. Do you wish me to share them with you?” 

“I'd love it!” Clare brightened. “Do you have a scrapbook or something?” 

__Sorik raised his eyebrows, looking almost amused. “I was offering to share my memories directly. Allow me to join my mind to yours.”_ _

__“Directly?” Clare was taken aback. She hesitated--and probably blushed, besides--recalling various private opinions and fantasies that she wasn't eager to share with a man, different species or advanced age notwithstanding._ _

Sorik seemed to guess the reason for her reluctance. “It will be as if you had invited me into your house,” he reassured her. “I will only go into those rooms where I am welcome, and I will not rummage through the drawers or cupboards.” 

Who had ever said Vulcans didn't have a sense of humor? 

“I must place my hand against your face,” he said. Clare pulled her chair closer to his and leaned in so he could reach her more easily. Sorik spread his fingers across her cheek and temple, feeling for the nerve points. “My mind to your mind...” 

As the meld took hold, Clare felt the boundaries dissolving between her own awareness and Sorik's. Sorik's memories were becoming her own. Suddenly she, Clare, was a little boy on Vulcan, sitting in a desert garden and sifting the fine red sand through his hands. Its heat felt good in his hands. His younger sister, T'Rul, crouched next to him, patting out pies of wet sand and decorating them with seed pods. Across the courtyard, a tall, athletic woman with a cheerful face was vigorously sweeping the porch steps. Her blond hair was cropped short, and she wore a shopkeeper's apron over a Vulcan-style tunic and a pair of blue jeans. Claire Pertwee hummed a little tune as she worked. When she finished sweeping, she set the broom aside, dusted off her hands, and flashed Sorik a sunny smile, the same smile that Clare Raymond saw every day in the mirror. Claire Pertwee called out to Sorik, “Ricky, bring Tillie in now and get both of you washed up. Grandpa Tuvik will be here soon.” 

The images in Clare's mind shifted and re-formed. Now Claire Pertwee's own memories were opening up like a flower. Clare Raymond became Claire Pertwee, a laughing, adventuresome girl who loved her alien husband and his people as much for their serene outward behavior as for the fiery natures they hid within. There were scenes from the other Claire's girlhood on earth, of Christmas trees, of her first taste of baklava in the spaceport cantina at the Martian colonies when her parents went there on sabbatical, of James Pertwee's mother reminiscing, “When my Grandpa Eddie was your age...” 

Clare sensed Sorik's voice inside her mind. _These are the memories that my mother shared when she melded with my father, which my father passed on to me_. Then Clare began unfolding her own memories to Sorik, showing him the humans from so long ago whose genes he carried within himself. In a breathtaking panorama, Clare could see her parents and grandparents, and of all her children—Donald's children, Eddie's children, all the humans and all the Vulcans--as links in a chain of life forged across the stars: forged of logic, and blood, and love. 


	10. Chapter 10

The sun had just set. Sorik, weary from his mind meld with Clare, had retired to his own room for the night. But instead of winding down, the rest of the family seemed unusually wakeful and alert. There was a lot of coming and going in the wing of the house where Kovol and Linavil's room was located. Before long, the door gong sounded, and T'Vikka admitted two women wearing long white gowns and odd-looking white headgear. Kovol emerged from his wing of the house to escort them toward his room. “Midwives,” someone said to Clare.

Clare decided she had better stay quietly out of the way. It was too early to feel tired, so she got out her needlepoint and took it to the main sitting room to work for a while. Two of the children approached her there. They were Tuvoth's son Xon, who was a little younger than Lizzie, and Xon's older sister, Zerra. “Father says you're interested in astronomy,” the boy said. “We would be gratified to teach you some of the Vulcan constellations, if this is acceptable to you.”

Clare suppressed a smile at hearing such a young boy speak such formal language. “It would be very acceptable,” she replied. She laid her needlepoint aside and rose to follow the children to the terrace outside.

The strong heat of the day had passed, but the air was still warm. There was just enough of a breeze to set the stars twinkling. A little more than two months ago, Clare had stood in the snow, looking at the same stars with Lizzie, but now that felt like another lifetime. “That's the Sehlat,” said Zerra, pointing at a constellation low on the horizon. “That bright star there is his nose, and those other stars—there, and there—form the rest of the head. See that star on the left that makes the shoulder? That's your own sun, Sol.”

“Your planet is very far away,” said Xon.

“I know,” said Clare. 

“It would be agreeable to go there some day,” said Zerra. “Sometimes one wishes for the novelty of visiting planets other than one's own.” 

_Kids are the same everywhere_ , marveled Clare.

Clare began to look about the sky. To her surprise and delight, many of the constellations looked the same as they did from earth. Only the positions of the very nearest stars were different. (“Vulcan is not so far away from earth, in astronomical terms,” Tuvoth explained later. “Looking at the stars from earth and from Vulcan is roughly analogous to looking at earth's moon from Mexico City and your Seacaucus.”) 

That night, Clare learned to call her old friends in the night sky by their Vulcan names: the winged predator Shavokh and the Great Sand Dragon, the Three Princesses and the Swordsman, Tith-Khana the Weaver, and Maripol, Devourer of Hearts. When she fell asleep that night, she dreamed that she was dancing with Claire Pertwee and Deanna Troi. The three of them were whirling around and around on a transparent starship, through which they could see and hear the stars in every direction singing dixieland jazz in Old High Golic.

When Clare woke up the next morning, there was a baby in the house.

Linavil had given birth shortly after midnight. In the middle of the morning, several of the clan elders arrived at the house. Zerra and her older sister came to fetch Clare from her room. “T'Prel has summoned you,” the older sister said, “and you're to wear this.” She was holding a rust-colored robe with Vulcan calligraphy down the front edge. “You're to meet the new one now.”

“But I'm sure Linavil needs her rest,” Clare said. “I don't mind waiting, really.”

“No, it is necessary,” said the girl. “Sorik and T'Prel will insist.”

Another odd Vulcan custom. Clare decided she had better comply. 

Dressed in the robe, Clare followed the sisters into the main sitting room where the family had greeted her when she first arrived. There were extra chairs arranged in a circle about the room, and the whole household was there, along with the visiting elders. Sorik was reclining on his couch, with T'Prel sitting close beside him, and everyone was wearing ceremonial robes. Linavil was seated next to Sorik and T'Prel, and Kovol stood next to her, holding the swaddled newborn in his arms. Folded over the swaddling was a dark red brocade blanket with gold edging. Clare and the sisters slipped silently into the remaining empty seats. Some sort of ceremony was obviously about to happen.

Sorik raised his hand in the ta'al and pronounced some sort of benediction in Vulcan. He then held out his arms toward Kovol, who placed the baby there. Kovol helped Sorik support the baby in his left arm, while Sorik held the index and middle fingers of his right hand together and wiped them gently across the baby's temple and cheek. He said something to the baby in Vulcan, then gently handed it back to Kovol. Next came T'Prel's turn to hold and welcome the infant. Tuvoth, sitting near Clare, explained, “It is the _telan t'kan-bu na-skann_ , the welcome-bonding of the child. This telepathically introduces her into her birth clan.”

Clare watched, fascinated, as each person in turn held the baby and traced two fingertips across its face, some of them chanting soft words in Vulcan as they did so.

At last, Kovol approached Clare with the baby.

“Her name is T'Leva,” Kovol said. “You must hold her, so she learns to feel your mind.”

The warnings of Captain Shaheed and Trevhad came flooding back. “Oh, I mustn't!” Clare cried. “I mean, I'm practically a stranger.”

“You are one of her foremothers,” said Linavil.

“I'm human.”

“As is she, in part,” said Linavil, “and her father, and his father and forefather. They all are your descendants.”

“She'll imprint on me,” Clare objected.

“That is our intention,” said Kovol.

Clare looked from one parent to the other. “Are you—are you sure?”

Linavil answered patiently, “ _Tsai_ Clare, you are her own flesh and blood. You are _family_.”

Clare carefully took the warm little bundle from Kovol's arms. She gazed down at the tiny round face. It was like holding a woodland fairy urchin, with dainty pointed ears, wispy black hair, and a delicate complexion flushed faintly apple green. The baby squirmed in Clare's arms, opened one eye to a narrow slit to peer out at Clare, and then closed the eye and relaxed, as if satisfied she was in good hands. Clare gently stroked the baby's cheek with her fingertips. She had forgotten how soft a newborn's skin was. “Hello, T'Leva,” she whispered. “I'm your granny.”

\- - -  
 _  
Dear Deanna,_

_Hope this message gets to you, wherever you are out there in the galaxy. I wanted to thank you for all the help you've given me. I've got so much to tell you when I see you again. Mostly, I want you to know that I've finally found my place in this crazy century. I'll never stop missing Donald or my boys, just like Sorik will never stop wishing he could have grown up with a mother._

_But, at least, we've got the next best thing. Sorik and T'Prel have asked me to stay here for keeps, and I'm planning to accept. It may take me the rest of my life to understand this place and these people, but that doesn't really matter. The important thing is that I've got a family again. In fact, I've got an entire clan now. It's weird and mixed up and wonderful, all at once._

_Take care, Deanna. Give my love to Geordi and Commander Data. If you're ever on Vulcan, you've all got an open invitation to stop by for dinner. I make a mean plomeek ragout, if I do say so myself._

_That's it for now. As my kids here would say, “Live long and prosper.”_

Clare sat back with a sigh. _What's the word for it_ , she wondered, _when you're satisfied and bewildered and just plain amazed, all together_? She remembered what Sorik had told her about logic meaning the thing that was right or fitting for a situation. Maybe that was the word for everything she was feeling. _It's logical, fitting, right, for me to be here._

The household would gather for their evening meal in another hour or so. If only Donald could see her now. Poor lonely, frightened Donald, who had panicked at the thought of losing her. How, in his wildest dreams, could he ever have imagined what he was setting into motion for her? “You know what, Donald?” she said, to herself, to the air, or to Donald himself, if by any miracle he was listening. “I forgive you. Someday soon, I might even be able to thank you.” Then she stood up and put her PADD away. It was time to start the soup.

**\--FINIS--**


End file.
